Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Darling!” Joan shouts from a few yards away, white wine glass raised in the air and smiling like a politician. She’s surrounded by a crowd of well-dressed people, mostly men of a certain age. “Look who I found.” She indicates to an older man with a shock of white hair and a baby face. The man waves.
I glance sideways, to get an assessment of what Jordan’s face is doing. He’s got his stoic but resigned mask on. I’m learning all the little nuances of his micro expressions at record pace. Adapt or die, as Dom likes to say. I’ve had to. Otherwise I would never know what’s going on in that head of his and I would be in a constant state of confusion.
“I think she means you,” I tell him.
“I have to go say hello,” he replies with a grimace.
Across the polo field, I spot a large navy blue and white striped tent with tables and chairs, people milling about under it. “Go. We’ll be there when you’re done.” I tip my head in the direction of the tent.
With the sun bearing down on me, we make our way there. I figure Maisie and I can hide while Jordan does what he needs to do, shake hands and kiss babies. Like in The Godfather. Or whatever the political family, upper crust version of that is.
Sometimes I forget that he’s someone important. Everyone here seems to think so. Which is both strange and interesting because he doesn’t have many friends. Or any that I’ve met. No one ever calls the landline at his home, no one ever stops by. I know Jordan isn’t a party animal but no one?
Following the gravel path along the grass polo field, I send up a silent prayer of gratitude that this stroller is one of those off-road types with the big wheels. I’m already a hot mess and pushing this thing over rocks and divots in the grass is turning an already critical situation into a terminal one. By the time we reach the seated area, my cute sleeveless top looks like a used diaper.
“Did you see who’s here?” an attractive woman, mid-thirties, makeup perfect, dressed like she stepped off the runway says to her equally attractive friend. One of women eyeballs me strangely as I pass by. No doubt because I look like I don’t belong. Veronica would love this place. In contrast, I’ve already seen enough to count the minutes before we leave.
“It’s good to see him out,” the other one says. “Sad what happened. I’m happy to comfort him though.”
A strange feeling tells me they’re talking about Jordan.
“Not if I get to him first. Why do you think I donated to his mother’s campaign?”
Nailed it.
I find a small table with a few empty fold-up chairs and lay claim to it, pulling all my rations for the day out. Water, juice, watermelon cubes I personally diced, yogurt, banana and on and on. Maisie is a bit of a moody eater, so I’ve learned to come prepared for every scenario.
“Watermelon or banana?”
“Melo,” she answers.
“Welcome to the Fifth Annual Polo For Pediatric Cancer Research event folks,” the announcer says over the loudspeaker.
Scanning the crowd along the sideline of the field, I spot Jordan talking to the same man from earlier. He must feel my eyes on him because he glances around. Those forest-green, heavily lashed eyes narrow and scan back and forth until they land on me. It’s one of those weird meaningful moments that feels like it lasts an eternity…or I could be reading too much into it. Some redhead walks up to him wearing a big smile and takes all his attention away.
“It’s a scorcher today so I hope you’re all staying hydrated. We’re going to begin our auction shortly. Last year we hit our goal of seven-hundred-and-fifty thousand dollars. Let’s make it nine-hundred this year…”
The crowd claps and cheers.
“But first, a great big thanks to our sponsors…” He rattles off some big brand names. “…and Mr. Jordan West.”
Huh?
While I’m in a deep meditative state, analyzing this stunning new data, a man walks up to my chair. He’s tall and extremely fit in the way people who do triathlons are, with short black hair and a short neat beard, tan skin that suggests he spends a lot of time outside. The pale fine lines next to his smiling brown eyes are a dead giveaway. He’s probably the only person here dressed worse than me, with cargo shorts, a faded navy Lacoste polo and Birkenstocks. This guy made zero effort today and I respect that.
“Hi, I’m Beau,” he says as if I’m supposed to know what this means.
“Umm, hi?” is my reply. Hope Beau knows I’m not here to make friends.
“Hi!” Maisie chimes in.
The dude crouches down next to the stroller and smiles at Maisie and every protective instinct in my body––instincts I never knew I possessed––activate.